


Petite Mort

by DeliriousRose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 08, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriousRose/pseuds/DeliriousRose
Summary: Arya knows Death very well. She had experienced most of its many faces and soon, she would face the most terrible one.Yet there is another death she isn't acquainted with, not personally. It's a death she had heard from whores in Braavos, and got a faded taste from the faces she has worn--the one they call "the Little Death".Episode 802 spoiler ahead





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got this swirling in my head since watching episode 802. I tried to give a credible reason for Arya's vixen-ttitude, and watched the scene over and over again to dissect both her and Gendry's emotions.

The arrow hit the wooden pillar and all Arya could think of was her training.

Not the Game, not when she was a blind orphan living along the canals or a girl selling oysters, clams, and cockles by the harbour. She thought of when she had worn one of the prettiest faces of the House of Black and White to become a girl of seventeen who had found nothing better than a job in a brothel.

The madam and the other girls had taken good care of her. They taught Arya how to please a man and how to pretend pleasure; what to say and what to do and everything that, in due time, could have even turned her into a courtesan, if she played well her charms—or so the madam said. And then, after two or three months, the madam had deemed Arya ready for her first client. Arya had been allowed to select who would pick her maidenhead: one of the richest and most generous patrons—a man whose name had been offered to the Many-Faced God, her target. The Waif had helped Arya for that night as well, with a cup of moon tea and the Long Farewell mixed with rouge.

Arya nocked another arrow.

That night she had been more nervous than she would ever admit. Not because of the killing, not because of losing her maidenhead, but because whenever Arya had pictured her first time with a man, she hadn’t been able to take Gendry’s image out of her head—just like during her training at the brothel—just like when, in the dead of night, her hand caressed her body. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck, or perhaps not, but the man had wanted to indulge in some games and other pleasures before taking what he had paid for—long enough for the wine to hasten the Long Farewell’s effects and let her keep her maidenhead.

Arya loosened just a little her hold on bow and arrow.

The air flowed through her teeth, filling her nose with the smell of grain, trying to focus on the target ahead but how could she? Gendry had been so… no, “handsome” wasn’t the right word to describe him the last time she had seen him at the forge—the way he hammered the red-hot dragonglass; how he sank it into the tempering bath, steam swirling all around him and droplets of sweat running on his skin. It had turned her bowels into swarming worms; the burning moistness between the thighs and the desire to taste the salt of his body almost impossible to ignore.  _Almost_. Probably she would have given in if they were alone.

A smile twitched her lips.

Gendry had been so sweet when he had tried to scare her out of the battle, saying that the White Walkers were like Death. She knew Death, as well as any other old friend, and most of all she knew how to deal with it better than anyone else in Winterfell.

 _Not today_ , Syrio Forel’s voice echoed from the recess of her memories.

 _Not today, but certainly tomorrow_ , she wanted to reply to the First Sword of Braavos.

The battle could begin anytime soon and there she was, thinking about her maidenhead and Gendry and how she wanted to give it to him. Besides, she knew what to expect. She had learnt it through the faces she had worn: the difference between a man and woman’s pleasure, how different it could be according to whom gave it—how at times there could be no pleasure at all, only pain and humiliation or the eliciting sense of power. But those were the faces’ experiences, they were nothing more than the memory of a fading dream to her—they weren’t her own.

What would a man’s— _Gendry’s_  touch feel like on her skin? How would it be to have his hands, blistered and calloused by long hours at the forge, grasping at her flesh? How would his mouth taste like? To have his tongue drawing paths over her—to have him  _inside_  her? Could she let Death take her if she didn’t know the answers to those questions? Could she die without experiencing what the braavosi whores called “the Little Death” first-hand?

Footsteps approached, warily, stopping only a few feet away.

Arya pretended not to notice Gendry, half hidden in the shadow, even if knowing that his blue eyes were fixed on her. Was the Many-Faced God who had brought him to her? The Seven? The Old Gods? It didn’t matter: it was an unexpected yet welcomed opportunity she would not waste.

She released the arrow. Took another, nocked it.

Would he make the first step? Should she?

The arrow hit the target.

The footsteps came closer, and Arya turned around, struggling to hold herself back, yet managing to show little of it as she had learnt in the House of Black and White. Her eyes lingered on his blue ones—were his pupils dilated because he wanted her just as bad as she wanted him, or was it because of the torches? Arya walked to him, forcing her eyes on the polearm, the black dragonglass point shining in the torchlight.

‘That for me?’ The weapon was a good excuse for them to meet at such ungodly hour. For what she knew, Gendry could have just finished it.

Arya took the spear and twirled it like the quarterstaff she had used to train with the Waif, feeling its weight, appreciating its balance and how it felt in her grasp. It wasn’t a fancy thing, but she didn’t care and, besides, it was all Gendry could do in such a small amount of time.

‘This’ll work,’ was all she could say. She didn’t trust herself to comment at his craftsmanship, not when she desired to find out if Gendry was as good with a woman as he was with the hammer.

The spear. Arya focused on the spear, manoeuvring it to ease her nerves, to buy a little time and go smooth instead of ripping his clothes off.

‘Last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell. Took the long road but…’ Was Gendry using small talk to ease his own nerves?

Arya was not in the mood of chitchat, not when the horns could blast at any moment to announce the Dead Army. Perhaps she could play the Game with him first: she would hate it if she had misinterpreted the way Gendry looked at her, the hunger in his eyes and the peculiar way he said “m’lady” just to piss her off.

‘What did the Red Woman want with you?’ she asked, her eyes on him, twirling the spear as she walked past him.

The topic should be more embarrassing than what she had expected. Gendry didn’t turn around, didn’t face her, but put some more distance between them.

‘She wanted my blood for some kind of spell.’ It wasn’t the answer she had expected, just like she hadn’t expected the dull anger slithering through Gendry’s voice.

Arya knew a little about bloodmagic. One-Eyed Yna, one of the whores at the Happy Port, could tell someone’s future by tasting their blood. When she was Cat of the Canals, Yna had offered to tell her fortune as a tip, but Arya didn’t believe in bloodmagic—and neither she did now.

‘Why your blood?’ she asked, hiding her curiosity.

Gendry didn’t reply at once. If he didn’t want to talk about it, then she should change her approach—

‘I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard.’

 _I beg your pardon?_  But the words didn’t come out her mouth.

She stared at him, figuring out the implication. Gendry was a Highborn—no, a Royal bastard, the last living Baratheon for what she knew. A few days before, she heard Tyrion Lannister, the Eunuch and Ser Davos discussing that Daenerys should legitimate Jon if they defeated the army of the Dead and both survived the battle. Like the Lannister had done with the Bolton Bastard so that he could marry Sansa. _If_ Gendry survived, Daenerys could legitimate him too as a reward for forging dragonglass weapons for the livings. _If_ they defeated the army of the Dead— _if_ they survived the battle.

‘I didn’t know until she told me.’—That dull anger in Gendry’s voice was back, and Arya knew he was telling the truth—‘Then she tied me up, stripped me down, put leeches all over me,’ he continued, all his previous awkwardness gone.

Arya tried to picture Gendry stripped naked. Oh, she remembered all those years back in Harrenhal, his bare torso and a leather apron tied around his loins as he worked at the forge… Back then, Arya had been fascinated by his strength, but as she grew it was his rippling muscles who haunted her dreams, the ones that would have made her mother’s angry if she ever knew about them.

And there it was, the opportunity she had to grasp, and she had to grasp it right then, right there, while everybody in Winterfell waited for their enemy to show up.

‘Was that your first time?’ Arya asked casually because there was no other way to ask it.

The braavosi whores once told her that a man’s first attempt always ended in failure. Indeed, it would bother Arya a little if the Red Woman was Gendry’s first, but she would be even more bothered if she had to die with her questions unanswered.

‘No, yeah, I’ve never had leeches put all over my cock,’ Gendry replied with a sarcastic scoff.

How thick he could be at times? It would be sweet to go in a circle a little longer, to play a game of subtlety, but they didn’t have that time.

Arya went straight to the point.

‘Your first time with a woman.’ She kept her voice bland. No curiosity, no taunting. Not even annoyance.

‘What?’ Gendry stared at her, so confused that she could almost hear his thoughts— _what is she talking about_ and _why is she pulling this out right now_. He walked to her, his blue eyes sinking into her just like he sunk red-hot iron into the tempering bath, his cheeks flushed as if by the heat of the forge. ‘I—I didn’t—I wasn’t with _her_.’ 

‘Were you with other girls before that in King’s Landing?’ Arya pressed him, pulling off her leather gloves—there was so little or so much time left, she couldn’t afford to waste it. ‘Or after?’

Gendry’s embarrassment was almost sweet. He stood there, unable to look at her face, gaping like a fish as he tried to answer.

‘You don’t remember?’ she suggested.     

What would he answer? Would he lie and say “yes” not to look a fool? Would he lie and tell her “no”, fearing she would get angry at him? Yes, part of her would be a little annoyed, but Gendry was older than her, a handsome and healthy young man. Arya wouldn’t be surprised if girls swarmed around him like flies around a pot of honey—annoyed, but not surprised.

‘Yes, I was.’ His answer was curt as if he didn’t want to talk any further about it. And he didn’t lie.

Relief washed over Arya. One of the braavosi whores had pointed to Arya the patrons who had the most experience, suggesting to choose among them if she wanted her first time to be a memorable one, in a good way. _It would make the difference in your career_ the whore had said. Unlike Robert Baratheon, Gendry didn’t strike her as someone who could sleep with any woman, not when she had seen him turn down that girl from Stoney Sept, so many years ago—how empty was his threat to go and find that whore and “ring her bell” just to make Arya angry. She was such the child back then, and he certainly looked at her as such: a child, a little sister he had promised to take care of. But Arya wasn’t a child anymore, and Gendry had never been her big brother.

‘One? Two? _Twenty_?’ She said the last more as a taunt.

‘Well, I didn’t keep count.’ It was a lie.

‘Yes, you did.’

Most men would keep count, some because they needed validation for their virility and others because they treasured the memory of each woman they had been with. She hoped Gendry was one of the latter kind.

Gendry gaped again; his awkwardness was so thick that Arya could cut it with a knife.

‘Three.’ It wasn’t a lie.

 _Who were they? When were you with them? Where?_ She wanted to ask, but why should she bother when there was so little time left?

‘We’re probably going to die soon.’ Arya stepped closer. So close she could smell sweat and burned charcoal wafting around him. ‘I want to know what it’s like before that happens.’

How would it be like? Probably not like that girl who had sought deliverance from her step-father’s abuse. Would it be like that whore, killed by a botched abortion? Like that woman, who had lost her child and the will to live? Or like that highborn girl, who had fallen in love with and married in secret the son of her father’s rival and who had wished to join him in death? Would her first time be like any of theirs, or would it be something completely different?

 Gendry looked at her, astonishment swirling in his eyes like someone being offered the most precious thing in the world—desire darkening his blue eyes–and something akin to restrain. Why was he holding himself back if he wanted her just as much as she wanted him? Because she was a highborn girl and he a bastard?

‘Arya,’—His voice was a hoarse whisper, thick with desire or so she hoped—‘I—’

Whatever Gendry was about to say, Arya drowned it with a kiss. She didn’t care about any bullshit he could say to talk her out of it—she wouldn’t let him, not with Death so close to their door. She didn’t care about whatever confession he could utter either—she wouldn’t let him, even if Death took him and left her regret.

Fuck regrets, she wouldn’t have any, and by the way, Gendry responded to her second kiss, he was thinking the same.

Fuck regrets. Fuck Death, the White Walkers, the undead army marching toward Winterfell. All that mattered was right there, in front of her, with only layers of cloth and fur and leather standing between her and that fabled Little Death—between her and Gendry.

Their feverish hungry fingers fumbled with the laces, tearing and pulling; throwing away each useless piece of clothing—cloak and brigandine, gambesons and shirt. Arya ran her hands over his chest and pushed Gendry on the piles of sacks. His eyes burned like the forge as she undid her shirt’s collar and pulled the garment over her head—only to fill with confusion and fear at the sight of her scars.

‘I’m not the Red Woman,’ Arya said before he could ask about them—there was so little time left, and she didn’t want to waste it in idle talk. ‘Take your bloody pants off.’

She expected he would reply “as m’lady wishes”, but he didn’t. He acted, getting rid of his pants and booths and small clothes. Looking at her, perhaps waiting for her approval.

Gendry wasn’t the first naked man Arya had seen. Young men, old men, healthy and sick—all dead, lying stripped naked in the House of Black and White, waiting for her to wash them, prepare them. Gendry was the first _living_ naked man Arya had seen in her life—and what a sight he was! His deep, strong chest quickening with each breath; the skin covered in old scars, burns caused by the forge and melted metal, probably from the beginnings of his apprenticeship.

How she wished to admire him a little longer, to burn into her mind the hungry and lustful look in his eyes, his feverish expression—to explore every inch of his body, learn each one of his secrets. But Death came at its own pace, and the horns could blast anytime soon.

Arya climbed atop him, kissing him gentler yet as urgently as before.

Death would soon come, and in the meantime, she would grasp the Little Death, the one she knew through the tales of a braavosi whore and the ghost of a dead woman’s memories.


	2. Petite Mort -- part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘I was a Red Grace. Until the Dothraki raided my town and sold me as a slave. The man who brought me paid twice my weight in gold. He didn’t buy me to be fucked in his pillow house. The clever bastard! He bought me to teach his girls. And from today, I'll be teaching you.’_  
>  Arya had no idea why, of all the things she could—or could not—think about while kissing Gendry, it was her first meeting with the Ghiscari whore who came to her mind. Even with Gendry’s heat and smell and touch gnawing at her mind, the voice of Shegani—that was the woman’s name—echoed in her head, just like the noise of the pre-battle came from the courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of stories always takes me longer to write. I also don't know why I wrote a second chapter.  
> By the way, I'm thinking about two more pieces companion after this one, to explore better the hows and whys of Arya's behaviour in 804 (as a fan, I'd slap her, but as a storyteller, I appreciate that they kept her into character)

_‘I was a Red Grace. Until the Dothraki raided my town and sold me as a slave. The man who brought me paid twice my weight in gold. He didn’t buy me to be fucked in his pillow house. The clever bastard! He bought me to_ teach _his girls. And from today, I'll be teaching you.’_

Arya had no idea why, of all the things she could—or could not—think about while kissing Gendry, it was her first meeting with the Ghiscari whore who came to her mind. Even with Gendry’s heat and smell and touch gnawing at her mind, the voice of Shegani—that was the woman’s name—echoed in her head, just like the noise of the pre-battle came from the courtyard.

 

_‘Men are simple: The Little Death comes for them whenever they spill their seed.’ Shegani smiled sibylline, her voice turning in the low pour reserved for secrets. ‘We women, on the other hand, are more complex: The Little Death comes not only though someone trusting inside us, but also through the right touch in the right place. Even more than one.’_

_‘And which is the right place?’ Arya asked, half curious, half doubtful._

_Shegani shrugged, pulling back. ‘It depends. Your tits, your cunt, your neck… sometimes you don’t know that the little spot_ here _or_ there _takes you closer to the Little Death until someone touches it in the right way.’ She undid the knot tying Arya’s corset—there was no lust, no seduction in her face and gestures, only the patience of a teacher dealing with a promising student. ‘This is what your first lesson is about: to explore you until you know what pleases you.’_

‘Not like _that_ ,’ She whispered, reaching out for his hand.

‘Wha—’

‘More like _this_ ,’ Arya cut him, her fingers guiding Gendry’s fingers like so long ago Shegani’s ones did with hers.

Shegani’s hand was smooth like silk and slender, with fingers fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, while Gendry’s was… rougher, in every sense. It was a big strong hand, hardened by the hammer and blistered by the forge—an armourer’s hand, not of a goldsmith who made dainty creations of spun gold and tiny gems. It was stupid of her to suppose that Gendry’s touch would feel like that of Shegani, a Braavosi whore who used to be a Ghiscari Red Grace. He was a man—he was her bull-headed Gendry—it had to be different. And yet, there was a sort of softness in his touch—a little awkward, as if Gendry was afraid to touch her, hurt her.

‘As you wish, m’lady.’

_Don’t call me that_. The words almost stumbled out of her mouth, but all that came from her slightly parted lips was the softest moan, almost a mousy squeak compared to the whores’ vocalisations. A fast learner, was Gendry

Yes, Gendry’s fingers were rougher and not as nimble as Shegani, but they had something… different? Deeper? Arya couldn’t find the right word to describe it, neither she cared as Gendry turned her on her back, the burlap prickling her skin. Gods, the feeling of his trailing kisses made her dizzy, like that time she drank black tar rum. Why waste time in idle musing with Death about to knock at her door? Why waste—

Eyes wide in the torchlight. A soft, choking gasp escaping her throat.

‘Does this please m’lady?’ Gendry’s voice was a cocky purr, his lips brushing on the deep scars on her side—Arya had no idea scarred skin could be so sensitive, or maybe it was his tongue, hot and soft. ‘Or maybe this?’ he purred again, kisses leaving a wet trail across her belly, lingering on her navel before going down and down.

She had an idea of what Gendry wanted to do. It was one of the things Shegani wouldn’t teach her—' _not yet, and besides rarely a patron requests it_ ’—but at times, Arya had glimpsed the other girls pleasure each other with their mouths, under the lewd eye of a voyeur patron. Back then, she thought it was gross and not half pleasant as the whores pretended, but now, with Gendry’s stubbled chin brushing on her smooth skin, the fiery kisses melting her like steel in the forge—

‘No–wait—I… I didn’t…’ Arya swallowed, grabbing his face in her trembling hands. Her own cheeks burned. When had been the last time she was embarrassed? ‘You know? Washed _there_ …’

Before the workday began in the brothel, all the whores took a bath, and in-between clients they washed their sex. Shegani used to say that cleanliness kept the pillow sickness and pregnancy at bay.

Gendry his face slipped off her hand as he sank his nose between the dark curls. ‘It smells nice enough for me, _m’lady_ ,’ he whispered as if he was smelling a winter rose instead. He looked up at her, an alluring gleam in his eyes as he cocked an eyebrow. ‘If m’lady lets this poor smith get a taste…’

 

_‘You must look in his eyes, always. They say that Irogenia of Lys could finish a man with nothing but her eyes.’_

No matter how much Arya tried, all that was left of Shegani’s instruction was only a distant faded echo. She wished to look at Gendry, imprint in her mind his brazen stare, the way he held up her ass—like a cup filled to the brim with wine—how his red-hot tongue lapped at her sex—sucked at it as braavosi sucked on oysters. But she couldn’t. she just couldn’t keep her eyes open. The pleasure, similar to what Shegani had helped her to explore, but tenfold—one hundredfold—no, more than that enfolded her senses and caught her mind—it arched her back and elicited a purring gasp from her throat—her hands clawed at the sackings. A wave of rising tide impossible to fight—the heat of the forge and of melted steel.

And then the tide receded and the steel cooled down, leaving her in utter listlessness—soft and shapeless like a ragdoll.

A disturbing thought rattled in the very back of her mind— _it would take so little for Gendry to kill me_ —and for perhaps the first time Arya understood what the Kindly Man meant when he told her she had to give even her sex to the Many-Faced God— _it would take so little to kill anyone lying between my tights, soft and shapeless like a ragdoll_. Was this why it was called “the Little Death”?

But Gendry would never kill her, and if he wanted, he would seize his chance right now, instead of leaving a new trail of wet kisses across her stomach, lingering on the scars, and up along her sternum, the pulsing veins of her neck, the line of her jaw. Until she could taste herself on his tongue.

Little by little, strength came back into her limbs, enough for Arya to kiss Gendry back, to wrap her arms around his torso. She could feel him, hard against her inner thigh—Arya wondered what _he_ would taste like if he would appreciate to taste himself on her tongue. She pushed him on his back as she sat up—would they have enough time?

‘Are… are you sure you want all of _this_?’ Gendry whispered, probably misunderstanding her hesitation. ‘We might die soon, but we could survive and you—’

She swallowed whatever he was about to say, her tongue wiping the words off his.

‘Do you think I would fuck you if I didn’t want to?’ Arya replies, her mouth still on his, straddling him—rubbing herself against him.

He took a hold of her hip, his fingers and nails sinking into her flesh. His cheeks reddened as he pulled back enough to breath and speak. ‘But if this is your first time, maybe you’d prefer someone… of a different _size_.’ Gendry placed his other hand on her cheek, staring at her with concern. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Arya pulled back, sitting on her haunches like a wolf, examining him with an eye closer to the one she used while cleaning the bodies in the House of Black and White. Everything about Gendry his big—his chest, his muscles, his cock dauntingly waiting to be inside her.

 

_‘What if he’s too big?’ There’s no fear in her question, only curiosity. In the House of Black and White, Arya had seen men of any size, even if they were mere limp flops of dead flesh, dangling between dead legs._

_Shegani gave out a hearty laugh, the amusement in her voice fading into a teaching tone as she answered—_

 

‘If a baby can come out my cunt, then your cock can fit in,’ she whispered, almost matter of factly.

Gendry gaped at her, perhaps looking for an answer that doesn’t come. It was good, they’ve already wasted too much time talking for her tastes.

Arya pulled him up in a semi-sitting position to kiss him, shifting enough so that he would nestle between her folds.

 

_‘Sometimes it takes a little, sometimes it takes longer, but you should be dripping wet before taking a man inside.’_

 

It was more pleasant than what Aria remembered. Or perhaps it was because this was _Gendry_ , not a Ghiscari Red Grace turned Braavosi whore.

It was good, although not half as good as what Gendry did to her. But it was enough to become wetter and wetter—to be as fluid as a wave lapping the shore. Arya thanked the gods it didn’t take too long; she didn’t want the battle horn to blast before she had taken in everything Gendry could offer her—not before she had tasted once more that Little Death.

The crisp winter air flowed inside her lungs, through her teeth. Holding him still, Arya searched for the opening, hearing in her head Shegani’s instruction— _‘Relax. Take it slow, especially the first time’_ —her eyes fixed on Gendry’s face, without really seeing him. She took him in slowly, lowering herself onto him, so slowly that, for a moment, Arya feared they would run out of time.

Shegani didn’t lie, so many years before. Being broken in doesn’t hurt much when done properly. It’s not even real pain, just like scraping a knee.

Arya stayed still, waiting for the burning to fade away, getting used to the feeling of Gendry’s presence inside her—inside her mind and heart, and now, even body. She feared they were running out of time and chose to ignore her discomfort.

Pressing their foreheads together, biting and sucking on his lips and tongue, Arya swayed, tentatively at first and then with growing assurance as her body remembered— _‘like a slender birch swaying in the wind… like a flame dancing on a candle wick’_.

Gendry ran his calloused hands over her skin, grasping a soft small breast; he broke the kiss just to bite on it like a small bread. And she thought of herself as a wave lapping at him—a swirl of wind enfolding him. She held him with every muscle of her body.

 

_‘Have you been putting your fingers inside and_ squeeze _them?’_

_Arya shrugged. ‘I tried but… I don’t think it worked.’_

_Shegani smiled, as caring as a mother. ‘It takes time for a braavo to learn water dance: at first, the muscles are stiff and clumsy. Yet little by little, his arm responds to his command.’ Her smile faded, replaced by the severe look of a teacher. ‘Exercise your sex with your fingers every night.’_

 

‘Arya…’

A choked gasp. The surprise into his eyes lasted half a heartbeat. His calloused hands firmly on her hips, adding momentum to her motion. The kisses grew savage. Nails left deep scratches on the backs.

A chocked gasp. The surprise inside her expanded into a tide when the elusive spot was touched. She swayed more frantically, trying to find it again, the elusive spot Shegani talked about. When she didn’t, Arya rolled on her back, pulling Gendry back over—inside—her, grasping the flesh of his loins, his warm weight pressing her down onto the grains.

She guided him, her hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm.

A soft moan rose to the ceiling. The elusive spot found again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again, until there was nothing else in the world but Gendry’s touch and Gendry’s warmth, and Gendry’s skin rough on her, and Gendry’s smell of burned coal and soot and sweat.

And Gendry’s taste of her and ale.

And Gendry’s softly moaning against her face.

And Gendry’s fleshy shoulder as she bit herself into silence.

Until there was nothing but Gendry.

Until there was nothing but the ecstasy of the Little Death.

Until there was nothing but them, laying side by side, in the utter abandon that follows.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "La Petite Morte" (the Little Death) is a French euphemism for the orgasm.  
> From the books, we know that Arya experiences the memories of faces she wears: I thought that it would be fitting that, at a certain point during her training, she would get curious about the sexual aspect of their past lives.  
> Also in the book, the Kindly Man tells her she should offer her whole self to the Many-Faced God, including her sex: this can have many interpretations, including the one I went with. And let's not forget that once Cersei told Sansa that what they got between their leg was a woman's weapon.


End file.
